The Honeymoon Period
by the classicist
Summary: Sequel to "Time of the Season". After their whirlwind marriage, Harry and Ruth head off to Scotland on honeymoon. But nothing is that simple when Harry and Ruth are involved...
1. New Year's Day

**A/N:** Hi. Hope everyone had a great Christmas, etc. This is the sequel to "Time of the Season", so it helps if you've read that. I own nothing – all credit to Kudos. Please read and review, whether you like it or not. Constructive criticism is always welcomed with open arms. Enjoy!

* * *

The night train is virtually empty, and they have a compartment to themselves. Ruth is exhausted and quickly falls asleep on Harry's shoulder, but he stays awake, watching his wife's face as she sleeps. Harry thanks whatever gods are listening, as he does at least ten times a day now, that she chose him. He isn't at all sure what he's done to deserve it. He's messed up one marriage and one family already, and Harry is determined not to do it again. "I won't let you down," he promises Ruth in a whisper.

"Hmm?" she asks blearily, waking up a little. Harry winces and shakes his head. "Nothing. Go back to sleep, darling." Eyes still closed, she nestles deeper into his shoulder and falls back to sleep. Harry leans his head back into his seat and closes his eyes too, a slow smile spreading across his features.

* * *

The driver is an ex-government chauffeur who has settled in Scotland. He deals with the luggage, while Harry helps a half-asleep Ruth into the car. She smiles up at him when they are settled and murmurs, "Harry, I _do_ love you, you know." Harry returns her smile, surprised at the innocence his usually pragmatic wife has betrayed. "As I love you," he returns immediately. He reaches over and picks up her hand. Ruth gives a sigh of contentment, and Harry catches the driver grinning at him from the rear-view mirror.

The next few days, he hopes, will be ones of relaxation for them both. Ruth has been putting in more hours than ever in the past week – _Proving to everyone that nothing's changed_, she calls it – and nothing Harry has said to her has made any difference. She's so adamant that they are going to avoid any accusations of favouritism on his part that she hasn't yet noticed the amusement it's causing the rest of the team. She hasn't noticed, either, the joy that they feel for the both of them.

She _saw_ it, obviously – the hug Beth gave her at the wedding, after an engagement of just two days, the vigorous handshakes Harry received from Dimitri and Tariq, while Alec clapped him on the back with a cry of, "About time!" Even Malcolm's beam of gladness as he simultaneously gave Ruth away and played the part of Harry's best man. But Harry doesn't think she entirely understands the impact their marriage has had on the rest of the Grid. Everyone seems so much more cheerful, somehow. People whistle as they finish off files. Harry has caught Beth and Dimitri flirting more than once, and Alec has taken to telling jokes at their morning briefings. Everything is far less tense than it has been for a while, and Harry realises finally how much extra stress their strained relationship caused for everyone else.

The car draws up outside the cottage just as the sun is rising, casting a dusky red glow over the horizon. A Land Rover (courtesy, presumably, of Malcolm) already sits on the drive – theirs for the week. The driver helps Harry to carry in the bags, flashes Ruth a grin, and then drives away. Harry makes towards his wife with a grin of unholy amusement on his face, and reaches around her waist to pick her up. Too late, she realises his intention – she is already in his arms, a little surprised at his strength. "Harry..." she protests softly against his chest.

"What?" he pouts. "It's tradition!" Ruth scowls a little at this – she and Harry are the last couple anyone would suspect of doing anything traditional once, let alone twice – and complains, "You already did this after the wedding, though." She feels rather than hears Harry's answering chuckle. "Ah," he interrupts cheekily, "that wasn't tradition, that was necessity. You were a little the worse – or the better – for the champagne that night, my love. I don't think you would have made it indoors in one piece alone." Ruth blushes, utterly mortified, but utters no more protests. Harry bears her swiftly over the threshold and then sets her on the floor. He grimaces, massaging his back, and sighs, "I'm getting too old for this, Ruth."

His wife laughs, and presses a kiss to his lips. "Well," she whispers seductively as they part, "it's lucky you're not planning on another marriage, then..."


	2. Sunday

When Harry wakes up the next morning, the first thing he realises is that he's alone. Ruth's side of the bed is empty and that is enough to make him sit up in panic, looking frantically around the room for her. His wife, fitting one of his jumpers onto a coat hanger by the wardrobe, raises her eyebrows in bemusement at him. "Good morning," she grins wryly.

Harry reddens in embarrassment – he can tell by Ruth's smile that she knows what his first thought was – and gets up. "No one mentioned that getting married meant a personal valet service as well," he teases, as he hugs her from behind. Ruth sighs happily, not replying. Harry trails kisses down the side of her neck, and she leans back into him, feeling entirely blissful. His arms wind themselves further around her waist, and he guides her slowly back to the bed. The coat hanger is wrested from her hands. It is Ruth who stops them, gasping slightly for breath. "Later. Help me unpack first."

Harry rolls away from her with a groan. "Spoilsport," he pouts. Fifteen minutes later, however, he is rather glad to be helping with the unpacking. "Crikey, Ruth!" he manages, startled, as he draws a purple, rather low cut silk gown from the top of one of Ruth's cases. His eyes take on a faraway look, imagining his Ruth wearing it. "I've never seen _this_ dress," he croaks. Ruth flushes and snatches it from him. "Well, it's hardly the thing to wear on the Grid, is it?" she points out, still rather flattered at his reaction. The corner of Harry's mouth twitches, and he deadpans, "You're probably right. God knows how much work I'd get out of Alec and Tariq if you did. Although, it would certainly provide an incentive for volunteering for overtime..."

Ruth giggles, not questioning his omission of Dimitri. She has a feeling that Beth is rather glad to have the flat to herself, and that a certain colleague shares her jubilation. "Hmm," she agrees softly, and leans over to add, "If you're _very_ good Harry, I might wear it for you one day." She sees his mind work through her words, and then he raises his left eyebrow. "I shall look forward to it," is his only reply.

Once the unpacking is done, Harry volunteers to go down to the village for supplies. Ruth watches his retreating back from the front door as he walks to the car, admiring his broad shoulders and the ruffled brown curls at the top of his neck. As he unlocks the car, he calls back sternly, "Stop eyeing me up, Ruth." Surprised, she bursts out laughing.

"Incorrigible woman," she thinks she hears him mutter as he opens the door.

When he gets back, laden down with shopping bags, including one containing a bottle of his favourite malt, Ruth is buried in a book. He gives her a swift kiss to catch her attention, and then hands her a leaflet he's picked up in the village. Her eyes scan the paper quickly as he waits, leaning on the back of her chair, and then she turns her wide blue eyes onto him. "A dance?" she asks in disbelief. Harry slides into the seat next to her.

"A dance," he confirms. Leaning back, he adds nonchalantly, "It's been a long time since I took a girl dancing, Ruth..." His wife rolls her eyes, and sets the leaflet aside, returning to her book. "I've never danced in my life. Not even ballet as a little girl. I'd never manage Scottish dancing." She still becomes endearing embarrassed at the prospect of making a fool of herself in front of Harry – the man she, for want of a better word, idolises. Harry wraps an arm around her shoulders, tugging the book out of her hands. "But, Ruth," he protests, "it'll be like a Jane Austen novel. Don't you want to find out what it's like?"

His wife's only response is to deepen her frown. Harry leans in very close to her ear and whispers in his deep voice, "Oh, Ruth, where's your spirit of romance?"

* * *

"Come on, Ruth – it starts at eight!" he calls up the stairs, adjusting his bow tie in the mirror. The kilt, surprisingly, still fits. It's the one he inherited five years ago from his maternal uncle, one of the Monro clan, in the firm belief that, even though his sister had married an Englishman of all people, her offspring should still keep in touch with their Scottish roots. The dance is a formal affair, held by the laird and his wife for anyone who'll come. But by the looks of things, Ruth isn't going to be one of them. Harry turns once again to the top of the stairs, and his eyes widen.

Ruth is standing there, looking somewhat nervous. And lovely. She's wearing _that _dress, and she's pinned her chestnut hair up. The barest touches of make up warm her face, giving her an elegant and sophisticated look. "Will I do?" she asks quietly. Harry shakes his head, marvelling that anyone could be so unaware of such beauty. "You look beautiful, my darling," he tells her. He's never meant any words so sincerely. She glides down the stairs towards him, her gown floating around her, and as he takes her hand, Harry can feel the rush of her pulse in her wrist.

"Relax," he chides gently, as he walks them both down the garden path. He can't imagine anyone more suited for dancing than Ruth, endowed as she is with her own unique blend of elegance and grace, and he thinks himself a very lucky man indeed that he is her privileged partner...

She manages to resist dancing for a whole hour, practically clinging to the wall, as the other guests fling themselves around the floor in a series of exuberant Highland dances. Ruth merely gazes around the great hall where the dance is taking place, hung with tapestries and lit by glow of the central chandelier, with the soft fragrance of the rose decorations filling the air. Harry has no trouble in finding partners – several women from the village, and even the laird's wife for a couple of dances – but he is determined that before the end of the night, Ruth will have danced.

As the evening draws on, the music slows, and at last the musicians strike up a waltz. Ruth taps her foot slightly to the beat of the music, and Harry takes his chance. Without even asking for her permission, he takes his wife's hand and pulls her onto the floor. Before she can protest, his arm is around her waist, holding her very tightly against him, as he positions his other hand around hers. About to insist on being released, Ruth makes the mistake of looking up into his eyes. The love and tenderness she sees there halt her protest before it can reach her lips. Wordlessly, she allows him to guide them gently around the floor. She feels almost weightless, and utterly safe in Harry's arms.

Harry smiles as he feels Ruth's head come to rest on his shoulder. In the bad old days, after her return, when they couldn't talk about anything beyond work, this used to be one of his dreams – dancing with Ruth, feeling her love, holding her close to him, and not having her pull away. He'll never tell her this of course; any confession of the sort will only provoke guilt and pity that is no longer needed. "Thank you," she whispers giddily as the music comes to an end. But Harry doesn't release her entirely.

He can hear the last dance the band are striking up – an energetic jig – and he sees the rest of the dance floor reform into two lines of partners. He glances pleadingly down at Ruth, and she sighs, biting her lip. "Harry, I can't..." she insists. His arm tightens once more around her waist. "Humour me." Somehow Ruth finds herself on the end of the line, with Harry opposite her, as the dance begins. As Harry suggested, it is all rather Austen-esque, and Ruth can't help but enjoy the faster pace once she has worked out where her feet should be moving. Harry is moving with surprising speed for a man of his age, and the fierce enjoyment in his face as he takes her hand and skips down the centre of the lines makes her heart swell with love.

It is Ruth who slides up to him at the last moment before they part again to kiss his lips, much to the amusement of the locals who send up a cheer. Her hair is beginning to come out of its prim style, and her cheeks are slightly flushed with the heat and the exertion. Harry thinks she has never looked so glorious.

The drive home is passed in contented silence. Rather than relinquish their closeness, Harry maintains a hold on Ruth's hand, covering it even as he changes gears, which makes her smile. He has loosened his bow tie and opened the first button of his crisp white shirt, giving him an attractively dishevelled air. She sneaks a look at his bare neck out of the corner of her eye and swallows, remembering the attraction the same sight had caused that night at Havensworth all those years ago...

"Ruth?" he suddenly asks.

"Yes, Harry?"

"You mentioned wearing the dress... I don't suppose that this package includes _taking off_ the dress too?" he smiles.

Ruth smirks and looks down at her lap. "Oh," she replies in an offhand tone, "I think I can stretch to that, Harry..."

* * *

**A/N:** I was re-reading the Personnel Files the other day, and noticed that Harry's mother was called Fiona Monro, which has a nicely Scottish ring to it – I thought it would be fun to include at least _something_ regarding Harry's Scottish roots, but I'm not sure if it worked. Let me know?


	3. Monday

They spend the day exploring the nearby village, where Harry takes great delight in introducing Ruth as his wife to everyone they meet. It is here that Ruth finally realises how long he's waited for this, and how serious he is about the commitment they have made. If that is possible (which she isn't at all sure it is) it makes her love him even more. She clings on to his arm even tighter as they walk around, and he favours her with several of his deep, slow smiles and even a kiss as they get back into the car.

When they arrive home, Ruth goes to shower, while Harry heads to the kitchen to start dinner. He's just adding the finishing touches to a saucepan when Ruth appears, tying back her damp hair and wearing a skirt and, to Harry's surprise, one of his blue shirts, with the sleeves well rolled back. He raises his eyebrows quizzically at her, and she blushes. "Sorry," she tells him briskly, "I couldn't find a blouse to go with this skirt."

As she seats herself at the table, Harry kisses the back of her neck. "Hmm – well, I like it a lot better on you than on me! Wine?"

Ruth nods. "Please." Harry pours her out a generous glass and she watches in fascination as he gives the saucepan on the hob a few quick stirs. "Food'll be ready in a moment," he informs her with a grin. "Lay the table, will you, darling?" Getting up, she asks, "So what are we having?"

Harry flips the tea towel over his arm and bows, in a good imitation of a well-trained French waiter – complete with accent. "Ah, the kitchen has prepared tonight a range of delicacies for madam's delectation. For starters, prawns in a light dressing, for mains lamb stew and dumplings, and pudding will be _poires a la Pearce_." Ruth raises her eyebrows, and Harry elaborates in his usual voice, "Tinned pears with ice cream. I know it's quite simple, but –" Ruth lays a hand on the chest of his dark green jumper and kisses his cheek.

"It sounds perfect."

* * *

Ruth leans back in her chair with a satisfied sigh and pushes her empty dish away from her. "Harry, that was delicious! Where did you learn to cook like that?" Harry fills their wine glasses again before he answers. "I've lived alone for twenty-three years, Ruth, and there's only so many times you can dine at your club. Cooking is...relaxing. Nothing like making an omelette to take the stress out of a day spent preventing a bomb blast in central London."

The rest of the evening is quiet and pleasant. They deal with the dishes together – he washes and she dries – and then curl up in front of the living room fire. A comfortable silence falls between them, and Ruth falls to musing on the past week. In some ways, nothing has changed. In others, things are entirely different. Harry is still Harry, for the most part: the Harry she has known as her boss for the best part of a decade, the Harry who is extraordinarily grumpy until midday, the Harry who takes on the combined might of the DG and the JIC at least twice a week, the Harry who hates the Americans with a passion – special relationship or no. But he has also become Harry the husband – the Harry who wakes her up with a cup of tea and a kiss in the morning, the Harry who yells abuse at the England cricket team on television, the Harry who puts on old jumpers at weekends to work in the garden, the Harry whom she has just discovered can cook.

Ruth smiles at this thought and tells him, "I never thought you'd be so..." She gestures in the air with her hand, hunting for the right word. At last, she settles for, "_Domesticated_." Harry grimaces slightly. "Charming. You make it sound like you thought I couldn't tie my shoelaces!" His voice alters as he adds, "I assure you, Lady Pearce, I am _entirely_ domesticated." He runs a hand down the side of her face, and Ruth shivers pleasantly. "Sorry," he apologises quickly, mistaking the shiver, "Are you cold?" She isn't, but she nods anyway, and he pulls her closer, wrapping his strong arms right around her. She leans back into him, closing her eyes and breathing in the comforting scent of his aftershave. As she drifts off to sleep, she hears Harry start to murmur:

"_Oh wert thou in the cauld blast,_

_On yonder lea, on yonder lea,_

_My plaidie to the angry airt,_

_I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee;_

_Or did Misfortune's bitter storms_

_Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,_

_Thy bield should be my bosom,_

_To share it a', to share it a'._

_Or were I in the wildest waste,_

_Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,_

_The desart were a paradise,_

_If thou wert there, if thou wert there._

_Or were I monarch of the globe,_

_Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,_

_The brightest jewel in my crown,_

_Wad be my queen, wad be my queen."_

She smiles sleepily, and whispers, "Robert Burns."

"Well," Harry growls softly, "we _are_ in Scotland..."


	4. Tuesday

"Let's go for a walk," Ruth suggests over breakfast the next morning. Harry, still busy devouring a plate of Ruth's scrambled eggs on toast, smiles at his wife's request and glances out of the window. It hasn't snowed for a few days, but the ground still has a white covering and patches of ice hang grimly on. Musing on the pleasures of an excuse to hold Ruth extra tightly, Harry clears away the plates, as Ruth fetches their coats.

Ever the gentleman, Harry helps Ruth on with hers, and is surprised to feel her soft fingers wrapping a scarf around his neck and tying it gently. Giving the knot a final tug, she pulls Harry down to her level and kisses his lips gently. "There," she whispers. "Perfect." Tenderly, Harry turns up the collar of her coat against the wind, and offers her his arm.

They meander along the road to the village for a few minutes, before taking a path through the fields that surround the cottage. At last, somehow, they end up on top of a hill, overlooking the fields. "Scarlett would think she'd died and gone to heaven!" Harry muses as they walk. Ruth nods – in the week that they've been married, she's become intimately acquainted with Harry's small dog, Scarlett, known affectionately to her master as, "the Devil on four legs." Scarlett would indeed enjoy running through these fields, chasing rabbits and getting into as much trouble as possible. Perhaps Scarlett's less-than-quiet nature was the reason why Malcolm had been so reluctant to take her for the week, Harry thinks, amused.

He turns his head to look at Ruth, and, as always, the sight of her takes his breath away. She is smiling serenely, her blue-grey eyes drinking in the beautiful gold-tinted horizon. The wintry sunlight catches her chestnut hair, tinting it with auburn and gold. Her mouth twitches in amusement as she senses his gaze on her. "You look beautiful," he murmurs, his mouth inches away from her ear, and is pleased to note the faint blush that stains her cheeks. She's still so unused to compliments that it is all part of the fun to provoke her natural modesty and bashfulness. He kisses her forehead, and wraps an arm even tighter around her, forcing his eyes to turn towards the view.

On the way back, Harry voices a thought that has been forming during their walk. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to live in a place like this? It's so peaceful." Ruth squeezes his hand, and he feels her wedding ring press into his palm. "Hmm," she murmurs. "It's lovely here." Harry halts suddenly, inspiration striking. "Then why don't we?"

Ruth frowns, not understanding. "Do what?" she asks, confused.

With a sigh of almost impatience, Harry elaborates, "Move to the country. Maybe not Scotland or – " his mouth quirks at the thought of their earlier discussions on this subject – "Sussex. But – " Ruth lets go of his hand, dropping it as if it was red hot.

"Move out of London? Oh, Harry, we've talked about this before. I don't think we can live that sort of life. I don't think we can have that," she explains, her serenity vanishing. Something in her weary tone irritates Harry, and he snaps, "What? Would it be too normal for you, Ruth? Too much like a real marriage?" He immediately regrets his words, as Ruth's eyes cloud with sudden pain. He wants to apologise, but Ruth doesn't give him the chance. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?" she hisses, in a voice Harry had previously hoped he would never hear again. Making an effort to control his temper, he explains quietly, "I thought you wanted us to be together, Ruth."

She passes a hand over her eyes, suppressing the strong, and very un-Ruthish urge to scream in frustration. "I do!"

Harry scowls and adds, "Properly! As a couple!" Why is she being so difficult? Why can she never just seize her chances to be happy, without analysing every damn thing a hundred times over? It is her analysing that has delayed them so many times over the past decade...

"I do," Ruth repeats in a quivering voice. "But we shouldn't have to move to be a couple, Harry." They have somehow managed to reach the cottage, and as Ruth attempts to walk past him through the gate, Harry blocks her way. "Well, it all boils down to one thing, doesn't it, Ruth?" he whispers. "What's more important to you – our marriage, or clinging on to the bloody past?"

Ruth's hand clenches into a fist at her side, to prevent her from lashing out at him. "I _refuse_ to answer that question," she spits. "And if you knew me at all, you would never have asked it." Harry involuntarily steps backward, and Ruth brushes past him. Speechless, he watches her walk back into the cottage.

Once he's sure she's gone, Harry gives the gatepost a violent kick. "Shit."

* * *

**A/N:** Angst ahoy for the next few chapters, I'm afraid. I thought it would be quite fun if everything wasn't always plain sailing for them – it's never usually like that, after all.


	5. Wednesday

Harry wakes with a groan. His back and neck are aching profusely, and he can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. No sofa is ever the ideal bed... He raises himself up on his elbows, still fully dressed, and catches sight of the half-empty whisky bottle and tumbler lying on the table beside him. His mouth twists in something akin to self-loathing. This isn't the way things should be happening. Rising, he replaces the bottle in the drinks cabinet and places the tumbler on the draining board in the kitchen, waiting to be washed up.

He hears footsteps on the stairs and Ruth appears, showered and dressed in a denim skirt and a dark purple jumper. They stand staring at each other for a moment, neither one entirely sure what to say. The air is heavy with awkwardness. Finally, Harry says, "Morning." Ruth turns away from him and busies herself tying her hair back. "Hi." He takes a step forward and lays a hesitant hand on her shoulder. "About yesterday," he begins seriously, "Can we talk about what –"

Ruth turns briskly, casually shaking his hand off. "There's no need, Harry," she cuts him off coolly. His head tips back in surprise at her efficient dismissal, but he continues firmly, "I think there is." He holds her gaze, and notices how tired she looks. Almost as tired as he feels. Her reply, when it comes, is far less self-assured than usual. "I'm not going to argue with you, Harry. It's far too early," she tells him flatly.

He sits down on the sofa and looks up at her, worry making his lined face crease further. "No one's asking for an argument. Just a discussion of what went wrong." A pang of sorrow shoots through him as a tear trickles down Ruth's cheek. He wants to hold her in his arms and kiss her and tell her how unbearably stupid and overbearing he has been, but he knows (and this perhaps hurts more than anything else) that he isn't wanted. "Not now," she begs, sounding impossibly fragile. "Please." He heaves a heavy sigh and rises to his feet. "Alright."

At the hall door, he turns back and asks, in a perfectly normal voice, "Do we have any aspirin? Got a bit of a headache." Ruth is rummaging in her pocket for a tissue, but she finally manages, "There's some Resolve upstairs. Bathroom cupboard, middle shelf."

Once Harry has gone, Ruth sits down on the sofa, soaking up the warmth that her husband's body has left there. Head in hands, Ruth thinks. It's what she's best at. She's the logical one. The one who thinks. The one who analyses. The one who always, always, finds the solution. "Crack the puzzle this time, then, Ruth," she challenges herself quietly. London is her home, the place she missed even in the heat of Greek summers, the place where she met Harry, and fell in love with Harry...

And that is the solution, she realises. She loves Harry. She's scared, and yet she knows that if he were there, moving to the other side of the world wouldn't faze her. She swallows, and gets up. An unbelievable happiness has filled her, because as always, she has solved the problem, cracked the code, worked out what to do. She reaches for the phone and her bag.

* * *

Edward Rhodes-Hamilton, the noted thriller author, isn't having a very good day. His secretary is ill, so all calls from his publisher are being forwarded straight through to him, and he can't work out how to get the main character of his latest novel into the next chapter. So he can be forgiven if when the phone next rings, he answers rather snappishly. "Yes?"

There's a slight intake of breath on the other end of the phone, and then an all too familiar, all too welcome voice asks, "Ed?" Edward's eyes widen, and his reading glasses fall down from his forehead onto his nose with a smack. "Ruth? How are you?" he smiles, genuinely pleased to hear from his old friend.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Ruth inquires anxiously. Edward rubs a hand over his face tiredly and then replies, "Not at all. I can sit motionless at a keyboard for half an hour at any time." Ruth clucks her tongue sympathetically. "I take it the novel's not going well, then." The last time she spoke to Edward, a few weeks after his wife had left him, he had had a serious case of writer's block. From his flippant reply, he clearly hasn't got over it yet. Edward shakes his head at his friend's obvious concern, and changes the subject. "You could say that. But, what can I do for you, Ruth? How are you and Harry?"

Ruth is unsure how to proceed. Hesitantly, she tells him, "Oh, we're both fine. We're on honeymoon, actually, in Scotland. An old friend lent us a cottage for the week." Edward gets up from his desk and stretches, somehow managing to hold the phone against his ear. He sighs almost wistfully. Ever since he met Ruth in the first week of university, he's been slightly attracted to her. They even went out on a date once, a few months after they'd finished their undergraduate degrees – both in Classics. He'll freely admit to anyone who asks that Ruth got him through their first year lectures on the Metamorphoses, and he often uses this as an excuse to perform the few favours she's asked of him in the past.

"Lucky Harry," he murmurs seriously. Ruth blushes a little, and clears her throat before continuing. "I was wondering whether you and Emma had managed to sell that farmhouse yet." Edward's face automatically darkens, not so much at the mention of his ex-wife, but at the mention of the current bane of his life – the small farmhouse that he and Emma had kept as a weekend retreat from the city. "No," he frowns. "I'd try giving it away if I thought anyone would take it, Ruth. Emma's given up on it completely – says I can do what I like with the place..."

Silently, Ruth is triumphant. "Well, Harry and I are thinking of buying somewhere in the country, and I was wondering whether we could come and have a look." Edward laughs out loud, sounding almost as gleeful as Ruth feels. "Of course! I'll email you some photos over later, if you like. Harry didn't seem like the usual London type at the wedding, but I never thought I'd hear of you moving out of the city, Ruth. What was it you said he did, again?"

Ruth smiles, and recites the legend all her friends swallowed whole at the wedding. "Civil servant. Same department as me." Edward nods thoughtfully. There's always been something odd about Ruth doing something so conventional and ordinary, but he's never been able to put his finger on any particular reason for suspicion. Most of their friends just put it down to Ruth's inherent contrariness...

"London isn't the place to raise a family, Ed. Harry and I both want a new start – something that's ours. I want us to be together so much." If Edward senses the deep, almost desperate, determination in his friend's voice, he says nothing about it. "I understand, Ruth. I'll speak to you soon, yes?"

Ruth smiles. Mission accomplished. "Yes. What would I do without you, Ed?" She hears a creak on the stairs, and hurriedly tells him, "I've got to go – Harry's coming. All my love, Ed." She puts down the phone and sits back, feeling entirely self-contented. She'll let Harry stew for a while – it will, she thinks dispassionately, teach his temper a lesson he won't forget in a hurry – and then reveal her surprise. It will make a spectacular late Christmas present.

* * *

Harry swallows the last mouthful of his aspirin drink and rinses out the glass. He has that uncomfortable, queasy feeling in his stomach that reminds him uncomfortably of all the arguments he used to have with Jane. He scowls. He doesn't want a repeat performance of _that_ fiasco, thank you very much.

He walks down the stairs, determined to unravel this, their first quarrel. He hears the murmuring of Ruth's voice downstairs and strains to hear what she's saying. It doesn't occur to him that what he's actually doing is eavesdropping. Eavesdropping on his own wife. Snatches of her side of the conversation reach him. "...new start... I want us to be together so much..." The desperation in her voice is easy to distinguish. He takes another step down, and the wooden stair creaks. Silently cursing old buildings, Harry tries to focus on what else Ruth is saying.

"What would I do without you? ...got to go... All my love..." Harry's stomach sinks and he half-collapses onto the stair. _Love_. She's in love with someone else. She doesn't want to move because she's in love with someone else... Harry's head jerks up as Ruth enters the hall and glances up the stairs at him. She raises a single eyebrow in a silent query. Harry gets to his feet and goes down to join her. "I didn't want disturb you," he lies quickly. "Heard you were on the phone." Then, in a tone of forced levity, "Who was it?"

Ruth thinks fast, and Harry can see the momentary stab of panic behind her eyes. _You never were a good liar, Ruth..._ he thinks sadly. "Malcolm," she returns, feigning the serenity that yesterday came so easily to her. "What about?" he asks, pretending to be interested, pretending to believe her story. His ears are still sharp enough to catch the slight sigh of relief she gives at his easy acceptance of her lie. "Oh, this and that," she smiles breezily. "Wanting to know how we liked the cottage, what we'd been up to..."

He forces a smile, and plays along, inwardly cursing. Inwardly questioning. Inwardly crying...

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry everyone... please don't kill me


	6. Thursday

Thursday has been no better than Wednesday. Ruth is still being placidly distant, and Harry, aching and bruised from a second night spent on the sofa, is finding it difficult to stay calm. Of all people, the one he least expected to be disloyal, or unfaithful, is Ruth. He knows he only has so much time before she confesses to him, and it is this that makes it so difficult to maintain the distance she's forcing between them. But he cannot bring himself to force a confession, either. At night, they sit together in the living room, silent and apart.

Ruth, seemingly buried in her book, senses Harry staring at her, and her heart melts. As she turns the page, she sneaks a glance at him. Ostensibly, he is reading too – some John Le Carre novel – and his glasses are sternly perched on his nose. She allows herself a soft smile behind her book. He's suffered enough. "Harry –" she begins, but is interrupted by her husband's loud, and obviously forced yawn. "Do you mind if I settle myself down, Ruth? I'm rather tired," he announces. Convinced as he is of her betrayal, he can't bear to hear the words he's sure she's about to utter.

She rises hesitantly, shutting her book with a snap. "Of course." At the living room door, she pauses and murmurs, "You don't have to sleep down here, Harry. Come to bed." She turns, holding out her hand to him. Harry sighs deeply – he doesn't know whether to feel grateful that she wants him at all, or touched that her compassion for him extends to sharing a bed with him when the next few days will probably hold so much pain for the both of them. He rises and takes her hand.

Settled in bed a short while later, Ruth curls against Harry, her hand spread almost protectively across his broad chest. His arms curve around her, and he hesitantly kisses her hair. Half asleep, thoughts on their argument of the past few days, Ruth whispers, "I'm sorry." Harry's heart breaks – so it's true then. There is someone else. But he can feel no anger toward her. No hatred. He merely holds her closer, and breaths, "You are the one person who _never_ has to apologise."

As they drift off to sleep, Harry prays. He prays fervently and repetitively to the God he does not believe in, in the hope that his orisons will be heard. _Don't take her away from me. Please, Lord, don't take her away..._

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**A/N:** Sorry if I'm depressing everyone – fluff to appear in the next chapter which will be a bit longer, I promise!


	7. Friday

Harry wakes up to an empty bed on Friday morning. His face wrinkles into a confused, and somewhat anxious, frown. Where is Ruth? They still haven't entirely got over their first quarrel, and now he knows they may possibly have another problem on their hands. Or, he amends conscientiously, _he_ might. He gets up, then, and discovers her in the kitchen, fully dressed and sipping at a cup of coffee while she writes a letter. "Good morning," he announces quietly, tickling her cheek softly with his forefinger.

Ruth turns her head to him with her first smile since Wednesday, and kisses the back of the offending hand. "Morning. I'm just writing a letter to Malcolm. I haven't even thanked him properly for giving me away at the wedding yet!" Harry grins, a little relieved, and pours himself a cup of coffee. "You could just give him a phone call – you spoke to him the other day, didn't you?" Ruth nods absently, but continues writing. "But that was about something else." They sit in silence for a moment, and then Ruth bursts out with, "I wasn't speaking to Malcolm. I was speaking to an old friend from Oxford." Harry swallows, convinced that this is the moment when she will tell him that there's someone else, that she's realised she doesn't want him any more. "It was about your Christmas present, actually," Ruth finishes.

Harry's jaw drops, and then he begins to laugh, his heart as light as air. She isn't leaving him. There isn't someone else. "You know, I'd completely forgotten that you hadn't given me one."

Ruth looks up again, and shrugs. "Well, I hadn't. And Edward was helping me." Harry's mind whirrs frantically. "So," he clarifies, "when you were on the phone so secretly the other day, and you told me it was Malcolm, you were really on the phone to Edward? About my present?" Ruth nods bemusedly and draws out a large brown envelope and passes it to him. "Merry Christmas, Harry," she grins mischievously. Curiously, Harry opens the envelope, and pulls out two pieces of paper. One is largely bare, except for a paragraph at the start, and appears to be a printout of a short email. Harry lays this aside for a moment to examine the other, which is a large photograph of a thatched farmhouse. It has a dark green door, and ivy is crawling up the walls.

Confused, Harry tells his wife, "I don't understand." Ruth sighs impatiently, and encourages him, "Look at the other piece of paper." He does so.

_Ruth,_

_I've organised the house viewing for the Saturday after you get back if that's alright. I'm sure it'll be perfect for you and Harry. Hope you're well,_

_Edward_

"House viewing?" he asks. Ruth nods, twisting her hands together endearingly. "Yes. You see, my friend from Oxford and his wife used to have this little place that they kept for weekends away. But the thing is, they've just got divorced..." She breaks off, and her husband sighs, understanding completely. "Well," she begins again, "he wants to get rid of it now – he told me so the last time we spoke. And, after what you said the other day, I thought we could go and look at it and... maybe, think about buying it." She stops and gazes up at him anxiously from beneath her lashes, biting her lip.

Harry beams and gets up to kiss her soundly. "You're sure?" he asks seriously. "I want what you want, Ruth, and it was entirely inappropriate of me to make that sort of ultimatum." Ruth flaps a hand and smiles. "I want... I want something normal for us, Harry. I'm proud of what we do, of the sacrifices we've made, but I want us to be able to escape it sometimes too." Her voice quivers slightly at this last, and Harry draws her up into his arms and holds her tight.

"Well," he announces at last, "thank God it was just a house. I was terrified you'd given up on me, and were embarking on a torrid affair with some Mr Darcy look-alike!" Ruth bursts out laughing at Harry's wild imagination. "Oh, Harry! A torrid affair? It took me the best part of a decade to tell _you_ how I felt – I'd hate to think how I'd manage with someone like that!" Her husband raises his eyebrows. "I was scared of the competition, Ruth."

His wife looks up at him, past all jokes. "There's no competition at all," she confesses quietly.

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**A/N:** Epilogue to follow shortly...


	8. Epilogue

"Harry? Can you bring in that last box? I think it's got the washing up liquid in it..." Ruth's voice floats out from the open door of the farmhouse and reaches her husband's ears. Harry shakes his head as he lifts the final cardboard box out of the boot of the car, and nudges it open with his hand. Sure enough, the bottle his wife seeks lies on top. He walks in through the back door, into the kitchen, where Ruth is busy putting away tea towels.

"Wipe your feet, please," she hastily orders as he enters. "I've spent most of the morning cleaning up from when Tariq and Dimitri came round yesterday!" Harry laughs and obeys, setting the box down on the scrubbed wooden table and throwing the washing up liquid towards Ruth. She catches it with a deftness born of long experience and sets it in its rightful place next to the sink. Shoes clean, Harry advances and wraps her in a tight embrace, lifting her up in his arms and placing her gently on the kitchen sideboard. She squeaks in surprise. "I've missed you," he whispers, his lips a hair's breadth from hers. Ruth smiles and blushes slightly as she replies, "It was only one week, Harry."

"Well, it was one week too many," he insists, and places a gentle kiss on her lips. He's had a week in Berlin on a routine operation to think about her and the new life they're about to embark upon... They are interrupted by a polite, yet embarrassed cough from the doorway into the living room, and the couple break apart and turn towards Malcolm. "Er... I dropped the box of books into the study, Ruth, but they still need sorting out." Harry nods and says, "I've got the last of the boxes out of my car, so I'll get cracking on them." With a final squeeze of Ruth's hand, he departs. As soon as he is gone, Ruth slips down onto the floor and turns to Malcolm, her smile being replaced with a look of almost frantic desperation. "Oh, Malcolm, how do I tell him?" she asks anxiously.

He smiles and moves towards her, laying a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I'm sure Harry will be delighted whatever way you tell him. I've always said, you make a smashing couple, Ruth. Now, stop fiddling with these boxes, and let me make you a nice cup of tea."

* * *

Harry is busy looking out of the study window when Ruth enters. He turns and holds out his arm to her as she walks towards him. "I've been thinking," he begins, kissing her hair. "Oh, no," Ruth teases softly.

He pinches her arm lightly, and continues, "I've been thinking, we could get some animals – you know, chickens, a goat maybe... We had animals when I was a child – it was nice." Utterly relaxed, Ruth murmurs, "Mmm, sounds good. Perhaps after the baby arrives..." Harry's arm tightens around her, and he turns to her in shock. Ruth's eyes widen as she realises what she has said, and she mentally kicks herself.

Harry takes a deep breath, and asks, "Are you... Do you mean to say that... Ruth, are we having a baby?" Biting her lip, Ruth nods her head. Harry's face floods with happiness and he positively beams at her. "I didn't mean for it to come out that way," she confesses. "I wanted to tell you on the phone yesterday... and then it seemed so mercenary and –" Harry covers her mouth with his hand. "Shh," he advises. "It's wonderful news."

Ruth still looks nervous, however. "Are you sure?" she asks. "_I_ was so pleased, but I wasn't sure... I mean, you've already done the parenting thing." Harry takes both of her hands, and taps the wedding ring on her finger. "Yes, I have. And now I have the chance to do it all again, with the woman I love more than anyone or anything else on Earth." His voice is filled with sincerity. Harry wraps his arms around her waist and Ruth breaths a deep sigh of contentment, the sigh of a woman who knows that the future before her is unquestionably bright.

_Fin_

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**A/N:** Thank you for everyone who reviewed or read this fic. I hope you all enjoyed it. There's the possibility for another sequel, if you'd like – possibly a bit more angsty – charting the pregnancy. Because nothing is ever simple when it comes to Harry and Ruth...


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